


What Fades Away

by samedifference61



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst, Domestic Pirates, Frottage, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Somewhat established relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 22:46:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6303157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samedifference61/pseuds/samedifference61
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Tell me about him,” Silver says, and it’s loud enough to bring Flint out of the pleasant drift between sleeping and waking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Fades Away

**Author's Note:**

> Is domestic angst a thing? I don't know, but here it is all the same. I imagine this taking place after 3x10 but who knows how the canon may shift after next week. I think everyone on the island has been to the Barlow house this season except Silver... Anyway, comments are always appreciated. Enjoy!

“Tell me about him,” Silver says, and it’s loud enough to bring Flint out of the pleasant drift between sleeping and waking.

Flint stretches, toes curling off the bed. He takes his time opening his eyes because he knows what he’ll see, and he’s mostly right. Silver has the portrait of Lord and Lady Hamilton in his hands, held at arm’s length so he can scrutinize it without really knowing what he’s looking at.

Silver is still naked though. Flint didn’t predict that one.

“Prying into my past is not the reason I allowed you here,” Flint grumbles turning over to his stomach to bury his head in the pillows. It’s far too early for conversations like these.

The painting is set aside for now, propped against the wall opposite the bed. It’s left uncovered and out in the open for anyone to see.

“Apologies, Captain,” Silver says. “I forgot the purpose of this particular holiday was simply to fuck each other into _forgetting_ the rest of it.”

Flint hides a small smile in the soft scratch of the woolen blankets. “I thought that was made fairly clear to you,” he says lightly.

All at once, Silver throws the curtains open, letting in sunlight and heat and memories. It’s not so early after all.

The blanket is ripped from the bed in a flourish, exposing Flint’s lower half to the sunlight filling the room. Then Silver is upon him, seated on Flint’s lower back so all the air is pushed from his lungs.

“So let’s fuck,” Silver challenges, voice low and determined.  The iron leg is cool against Flint’s hip. “And then you’ll tell me about Thomas Hamilton.”

***

“Who taught you?” Silver demands. “I knew you could cook, but this— I just wonder what else you’re good for.”

Flint dries his hands with a bit of cloth and sits near to Silver at the table. He sips his tea, feels its heat burn to the core, while watching Silver eat the bubbling fish stew like he hasn’t eaten in days, weeks even.

“There will not be much left if you continue at this pace,” Flint says. Silver has all of his too long curls tied up now, pulled away from his face. He gives Flint a wide mouthed grin and Flint feels the open happiness of Silver’s mood pulling him in, lighting the flames of hope so brilliantly.

It’s all too much, so Flint says, “There’s tea,” and moves to return to the hearth room.

Silver takes hold of his arm before he can leave. “Was it Thomas who taught you?” he asks, leaning back slightly in the chair to meet Flint’s eyes, trying his best to read Flint’s expression. Flint is sure he gives nothing away, however persistently Silver is trying to bait him.

Flint says, “Thomas enjoyed cooking,” and knows it isn’t really an answer.

Silver lets him go then, not asking anything further.

***

“What will you do with them?” Silver is leaning in the doorway, sunlight silhouetting his frame, and eyes bright with curiosity.

Flint looks away and runs his hands gently over the linen of a cream colored sleeve, a bodice, the silk overlay pleated along the edges. At one time, there were many more dresses. These are what remained after fleeing London. Flint fondly recalls an emerald green dress. He remembers the softness of it as it clung closely to the curve of her waist, layers of fabric held together by a tight corset, but most of all, he remembers how tiresome it could be to remove such things.

There is a heavy cedar chest in the hallway. It needs a good cleaning, but Flint plans to keep her things there, to take them out when he cannot remember the smell of her hair or the lift of her smile.

“I was thinking,” Silver says cautiously. “There’s a widow living in the cottage just down the lane. She looked to be about Ms. Barlow’s size. I imagine she would be quite grateful for something like this.” Silver touches the hemmed edge of the neckline with a raised eyebrow, waiting for Flint’s reaction, and Flint is strangely unbothered by the touch.

This does not feel like a violation but more like the release of breath, a relief from a burden long carried.

“Barlow was her maiden name,” Flint says softly.

Silver hums, considering. “I thought as much,” he offers, taking the first dress in hand and folding it neatly, easily, sleeves tucked under and bodice atop the skirt. Silver touches the garment with care and Flint’s left wondering where he might have learned such things, all while trying not to think about what he might have done differently in another life.

If he had the chance to do it all again, would he still end up here? Standing _right here_ with this crushing grief and the finality of all of it pushing at his insides.

Flint nods his affirmation with eyes closed and says, “We will take them to the Widow Turner when we return to Nassau.”

***

Flint reads in the midday heat and occasionally looks up to watch Silver through the open window. The once beautiful garden is overgrown with weeds and wildflowers, and the soil is too sandy for much stability so Silver is working on his hands and knees, busying himself with tasks forgotten in the vacancy of human care. There’s precision to his movements. Many of the vegetables are rotten with neglect, but Silver does have a nice pile of viable ones stacked together in a nearby woven basket. There are carrots and potatoes mostly.

“You should really hire someone to manage this place in your absence,” Silver says from the porch, speaking to Flint through the open window. He is covered in sand and soil and sweat. The sun has colored his skin with a fresh layer of bronze. “And I know what you’re thinking, but there is nothing poetic about letting this place fall to ruin.” Silver nods toward the book in Flint’s hands. “What does your Marcus Aurelius have to say about that?”

Flint traces the spine of his book where gold lettering states the author’s name.

Silver shucks off his shirt and uses it to rub at the sweat on his face and arms.

“Who taught you to read?” Flint asks, genuinely curious. Nothing Flint knows about Silver’s past would suggest he _should_ know how to read.

“Ah, a personal question?” Silver pauses to take a drink of water. “These burning secrets between us. I think I will tell you mine when you tell me yours.” And with a wide playful smile, Silver backs away toward the hearth room to use the basins for washing.

Flint reads one last line before replacing the book on the shelf.

_Everything is only for a day, that which remembers and is remembered._

Flint decides _Meditations_ will stay here among Miranda’s books when they return to Nassau.

***   

“I have a hard enough time managing the one I carry already. What exactly do you expect me to do with two?” Silver asks, holding the short blade in his hands away from him like it will reach out and strangle him if he lets it.

The sword he holds once belonged to Thomas.

Silver continues, “As far as I’m concerned, this just increases the very likely chance of any one sword getting stuck into my own belly.”

“You should carry two,” is all Flint says, polishing off his own sabre and then passing it between his hands to test the weight of it. He fidgets with the handle for a minute or two more, then stands, cool wood below his bare feet, facing Silver on the porch. He raises his chin in invitation, sword ready and body caged in a defensive stance.

Silver grunts from his seated position, “You mustn’t be serious. I have no interest in dying today,” he says practically.

“You need to relearn how to handle your body in a fight,” Flint explains. “The iron leg gives you asymmetrical balance. It’s something you can only compensate for by practicing.”

“I have no intention of involving myself in a situation dependent solely on my ability with a sword,” Silver counters.

“There will come a time when talking your way out of a situation will not be enough. A position of power will lead to those moments occurring more frequently, and I— may not always be there.”

Silver stands then, fury driving him forward. “I do not believe protection is something I ever remember asking of you.”

Flint takes a few steady steps, closing the space between them before striking.

“Then prove to me you do not need it,” Flint retorts.

Silver deflects the blade, but does not take the offensive, brows still set in confusion as he continues to weigh his options. Flint doesn’t give him time to think of a way out of this, striking again instead. Silver deflects once again, but stumbles this time, losing his balance. He reaches back to brace himself against the railing of the porch, lungs heaving.

Flint yells, “Come on!” And leads Silver down the steps of the porch, to the path in the garden winding away from the house.

The sweat is beading along Silver’s hairline, but he’s determined now. Neither of them have shoes on and the sand and overgrown brush underfoot doesn’t lend itself to a proper practice space.  The traded blows devolve quickly into an all-out brawl involving fists and profanities. The swords are long forgotten, but Flint still doesn’t relent. He’s testing Silver’s limits here, reacting to what comes his way, just to know what Silver will do, what he _can_ do.

It all ends with Silver on top of Flint. He’s on his elbows looking down at Flint with stormy blue eyes and sweat dripping from the bits of hair coming undone from the tie. There’s sandy soil smeared across his cheek and blood welling along a small cut on his lip.

Silver is almost certainly trying to work out whether Flint is going easy on him or not.

Then Silver smiles and snarls out, “I always wondered if the masochistic part of you enjoyed this.” 

Of course, when you leave an opening for a barbed comment, Silver will always take the initiative.

Flint heaves them over so he’s on top and pins Silver’s arms over his head. He reaches down to roughly palm at Silver’s cock just to prove a point. He’s hard. Silver makes a low sound in his throat at the sudden contact. “I suppose I could ask you the same question,” Flint says.

“Fucking bastard,” Silver breathes, struggling against the restraints, now fully aware that Flint was in control much of the time. Flint easies up with a weary curl of his lips and sits back on his feet with Silver still beneath him.

Flint’s ready to concede, to stand and pull Silver up with him, but what he doesn’t anticipate is Silver’s hot hands digging into his thighs, or the way he moves to quickly pull at the ties to Flint’s trousers raking them down as he uses his palms to pull at Flint’s hips to push him forward. Silver pushes up against Flint’s hips so his cock comes into contact with Silver’s own. Flint hastily pulls at Silver’s trousers trying to bring them into full contact. It’s not easy with Silver rutting up against him already, breathing erratically, far too impatient to make any of this last.

“Come on,” Silver shouts impatiently as Flint wraps a hand around both of them.

The spit on Flint’s palm isn’t satisfying, but the orgasm still comes to him, made painful by the grit of sand and not enough of everything else.

“Fuck,” Silver draws out, astonishment coloring the words. He’s still hard, so Flint uses his own come to coat Silver’s dick before pulling him swiftly towards his own finish. Silver’s eyes are locked with Flint’s when he tenses up into his own orgasm, fingers digging into Flint’s bicep just before spilling over his fingers and abdomen.

Flint cannot take the intensity of Silver’s eyes anymore, left bare for the world to see, so he leans in instead and licks at the blood pooling on Silver’s lip. Silver sighs before guiding their mouths together with firm hands on the back of Flint’s skull. There’s no chance to move away now. The kiss is slow, open, and measured, a heady contrast to everything else boiling over while the heat rushes between them.

And here in this moment, there are no ghosts choking the air from Flint’s lungs. There is only the touch of heated skin, and the taste of longing, and the sprawling unknown stretched out like ocean waves before them.

***

There’s a small pond at the edge of the property that’s a bit brackish but mostly clean. Flint leads Silver there and they both swim for a while, shedding linen, wool, and iron.

Despite Silver’s constant threat of leaving at the sight of any crocodiles or any crocodile-like movement in the water, he stays.  And as Flint predicted, Silver eventually takes a liking to the calm water. It must be therapeutic on his legs, a welcome relief from the iron holding him up on land.

Flint brings a bottle of rum from the house, and he sits on the small dock sipping it while Silver floats nearby talking too much about nothing at all.

As the sun dips below the horizon, painting the pond in orange and red, the rum admittedly starts to go to Flint’s head. He leans back to lay across the dock, feet dipping into the cool water below.

Eventually, Silver hovers above Flint, dripping water everywhere and says, “You’re a little drunk right now.”

“Not at all,” Flint denies behind closed eyes, and maybe he is smiling a little more than usual.

Silver leans down and takes Flint’s bottom lip between his teeth and now it’s Flint turn to pull him down and guide their mouths together, drinking his fill of something deeper and more enduring than rum.

***

In the shadows and humid heat of the night, Flint speaks of Thomas.

He whispers memories into the skin of Silver’s shoulder like a confession and feels his heart beat too fast, fearing how Silver will laugh at him for being so naïve as to choose a path that could only end in destruction.

The laughter never comes.

“You could not have known what would happen,” Silver whispers back after a while, and it’s nothing Flint hasn’t already tried to convince himself.

“Do not patronize me,” Flint warns. It’s easier to do this in anger than deal with the calm thoughtfulness he’s receiving instead.

Silver turns to face Flint. “No, what I mean is, you did not make any of those decisions on your own. You never had control over what Thomas wanted, and if he were alive today, I am sure he would have done it all the same just for the chance at something most people in this world never experience.”

A spark. A connection. A bright thread of _something_ that leads to a truly meaningful existence, however fleeting.

But Flint isn’t sure how to say any of that, so he just nods and dips his head forward for a kiss instead.

***  

They don’t talk about what happens after the dresses are brought to the Widow Turner, or what happens when they’re sailing off again shoulder to shoulder at the helm of the _Walrus_.

They don’t talk about it, but as they make arrangements at the tavern, discuss supplies and latitudes, Silver smiles a secret smile when no one else is looking. And Flint reaches for the hem of Silver’s sleeve as they are rowed out to meet the crew, touching the inside of his wrist for just a moment, and all of it, it’s enough for now.

 


End file.
